could'a

i saw her as the car came to a stop. she saw me, too. we exchanged glances through the murky plexiglass window of the train, and i could feel her watching me as i boarded. the seat next to her was empty, but i didnt dare. not when there was an open seat next to a middle aged indian man a few rows back and to the left. my intense study of a 19th century novel was a ruse that did little to avert my gaze from her profile. her blonde hair was covered by a tan knit cap and the ridge of her nose had a cute little slope. she wore a long grey coat that slightly opened around her knee, exposing a skirt of black lace. i could tell her it is nice. or that i like it. but i wont. i didnt. and as she stands to leave 3 stations too early i see her feigned aloofness break down. she glances over. i have my chance. but you know how this ends. her legs are too long, the slope of her nose too cute, her skirt too nice for me to believe she would respond. my eyes again fall to my book in support of my charade, but they never make it to the pages. instead my attention is diverted to the tremble in her legs as the train comes to an abrupt halt and she finds her balance on tall tiny heels. the train hisses, the doors rumble open and she exits to the right, only to make an awkward and abrupt repentance in her steps. the way out is in the other direction. her confusion is given away by her looking back and forth, her blonde hair swooping from shoulder to shoulder. as the train pulls away the tunnel becomes a closing vignette, and i think of what could have been.